Wilfred Owen

Move him intothe sun.
Gently its touch awoke him once,
at home, whispering of fields unsown.
Always it woke him, even in France,
until this morning and this snow.
If anything might rouse him now
the kind old sun will know.

Think how it wakes the seeds: -
woke once,the clays of a cold star
Are limbs, so dear achieved, are sides
full nerved, still warm, too hard to stir?
Was it for this the clay grew tall?
O what made fatuous sun beams toil
to break earths sleep at all?





Art by James O'Barr